


never found the words to say;

by thatbluebox



Series: road trip au [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, lil bit of fluff thrown in there, road trip au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2014-12-05
Packaged: 2018-02-27 11:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2691878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatbluebox/pseuds/thatbluebox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the difference between telling and asking. aka the two times skye tells him to stay, and the last time she asks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never found the words to say;

**Author's Note:**

> hello yes i'm back with a slightly more fluffy partition of the road trip au. this takes place before, middle, and close to the end of the au. **please note:** this realm divergences from canon, specifically around 2x07. the obelisk's mystery is still a mystery, and shield's growing concern is hydra, not the writing on the wall/city. despite this, the phone call between ward/skye is relevant, and did in fact happen (because 'hail hydra' is still a thing that warms my heart). i'd also like to say thanks again for all the comments/kudos! all the support is lovely. 
> 
> big thanks to nicole for all your help! you'll see part ii comes from your suggestion c; thank you, bless you.

i.

She's angry with herself.

Up until this moment she's been preparing.  She trains every day, checks her times, remains vigilant and follows her orders. But it's not enough. Nowadays it never seems enough. She still has nightmares. Still feels like she's been hollowed out and haphazardly pieced back together. But she smiles anyhow, because she's gotten good at pretending. 

It starts as a undercover op on the side streets of Paris. Coulson receives a lead of a Hydra base not too far off, where they hope to obtain the obelisk once and for all. At first he's indecisive about her; the whole team is. It's been fourteen days, eleven hours since he's escaped, and there's still an uncomfortable tension among the group.

She's there when the case is officially handed over to his brother, see's the fatigue in Coulson's shoulders as he finally relents. The senator puts her off; puts everyone off. But their compliance has more to do with abstract vendettas, which all converge into one. She thinks back to Ward's face when she tells him he's being transferred, the weight of his gaze that reminds her of his memory of the well. But she was angry, bitter, and calculative; things she still is, but perhaps more restless with their consequences. 

(I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife.)

She knows that it's ridiculous that a senator is giving the Director orders, let alone succeeding. Yet she sees Coulson's eyes flicker to hers, then to the map and coordinates that reveal the obelisk's last whereabouts. It's a short window, one that she knows he'd rather not give up. Hear's what she feels like is an apology, _I'll keep a few assets on guard_. 

(She feels uncomfortable about what that insinuates, what it's meant to suggest.)

He finally agrees. 

"I'm a field agent." She reminds him, holding her chin up high. She won't let him confine her to an empty base. 

"You'll run backup," Coulson implements. She bites her lip, but doesn't argue. Keeps silent when she reads over the mission and reads she'll be running tactical far from the action. Catches May's eyes and takes a breath; she'll have her computer, she'll run surveillance, she'll hack their systems. Her old job. Familiar. 

 

 

Twenty six hours later, despite this, she realizes too late something's wrong. 

She's working with Tory, some level four agent who was recruited a few months ago. He's good, bit unkept, and has loud, ginger hair. When one of her monitors goes black, he frowns when she makes a grab for the van's handle. 

"I can get it," He reaches over her, his Newfie accent coming out thick (he's from Newfoundland; surprisingly well versed in combat for a man from St. Johns). 

"You won't know what you're looking at." Skye tells him, impatience coming through. She doesn't mean it, she just hates the feeling that she's being babysat. He stares at her, and she can see him gauging if it's worth it. "I'll be on my coms anyways - I'll just go check up on the receiver." Said receiver was about a block up from the side street they were currently parked in, four steps from a bakery that had a brilliant display of macaroons. It's helping them stream their feeds and keep in contact with the ground agents, and hell if some bystander accidentally damages it. 

He's not happy about this. "Take this -" He hands her a gun, but she holds up her own. 

"I'm covered."

She throws open the van's doors. 

 

 

Skye makes it all the way down the street when she hears her com start fizzing. 

(She's not stupid; she does the necessary checks and surveys the area. Nothing. _Probably_ Nothing.)

It sounds like her com is picking up radio signals, and french music starts to filter through the static. She pauses for a brief second, frowns. That's weird. Like weirdly weird. Is Hydra jumbling their system? She glances back over her shoulder at the van - still there, still good. She tempts fate and continues toward the first problem.  

She makes it to the receiver, conspicuously embedded into the brickwork of the building. From her com she can hear Tory's voice amidst the french vocals and the increasing static. She can just make out his annoyed tone and the clacking of a keyboard. Obviously struggling, she realizes the disruption must be carrying over to some of the other agents' coms. Skye tells him to hold tight, and he groans. 

She's about to duck into the little niche when someone knocks into her. 

(Textbook.)

"Pardon moi, Memoiselle,"

Tory is still making a racket in her ear, but a few arrangements on the device, things start to fix themselves. Before long she hears a small bleep, and the com reboots itself. The receiver in front of her flashes green. 

"Skye,"

She whips around, gun already fixed and aims. ... But her line of vision is clear. 

(Maybe she was wrong?)

"Relax," She hears his voice again, and this time her eyes trail the group of persian shoppers.  "I just want to talk."

There's this smugness in his tone, which she focuses on rather than the thread of sincerity that encompasses it. "Where are you." She hisses and slightly lowers her gun. It takes her a moment to realize he's hacked into her com; him, Grant Ward. She allows herself to be offended, among other things. That's _her_ trick. 

He ignores her. "To answer your unspoken question, he's fine." Tory. Her eyes dart towards the van.

"Why don't you answer my first question," She moves out of the protected niche into the sunlight, gun at the ready. 

"I don't think we're ready for that, just yet."

(He's right.)

"Want to tell me how you're hacking my com?" It must just be hers given Tory hasn't bolted out of the van already, guns up.

(She quickly realizes that she's already subconsciously believed him.) 

"Perhaps." He knows that she's miffed, she can hear it in his voice. She grits her teeth together, focuses on the the details. She hears french in the background; he's out in the plaza somewhere. "I wanted to give you something." 

"Really," Her voices drips with contempt as she maneuvers into the crowd. Hides her sidearm as best as she can; no need to start a panic. Despite the warning bells going off, she's not not going to let him go, not when this feels like this moment was crafted for the two of them. She won't let him play games with her and let him get away with it. 

"Have you thought about it?" She makes a face, almost positive he can see it. 

(Of course she's thought about it.)

"About what?" She replies seconds too late. 

"So you have." 

She think she spots him, and her heart beat quickens.  

"Skye," His voice is soft in her ear, and she hate's it, _hates him_. 

(Because it still manages to make her hesitate, make her pause.)

It's definitely him, but it takes her a while to recognize him without the beard. It startles her. He's standing under the overhang of a little art gallery, composed and relaxed. Skye doesn't even see a weapon, and she's vexed; _he'll learn not to underestimate me._

"I promised you," He's saying, "And I keep my promises." 

(But she's not weak. _She's strong_.)

She rights her gun, hears the person next to her make a noise. 

"You wanted to know how I hacked your com? Left pocket." 

Someone comes along and blocks her vision, and he disappears for a moment. Frustrated, she pushes through the crowd, but he's gone.

(Not completely, however.)

"Bailing already?" She sneers, "Thought you wanted to talk. Why don't you stay a little longer?"

She hears the smile in his voice. "Ah, but I have private matters to attend to." A beat. "Left pocket, Skye."

(Three things: a novice hijacker unit, ten digits, a crumpled note.)

_He's on route 66._

 

-

 

ii.

  

"You're staring." 

She makes a noise, and adjusts her head more comfortably on the window. "Just making sure we don't crash." She's curled up on the other side of the passenger side, head resting against the window, swallowed in the rattiest sweater she's managed to pull somewhere along their trip.

"I told you, I'm fine." His fingers flex around the steering wheel. 

"Mmn," She mumbles, and he gives her a pointed look. 

"You should sleep."

"What's that quote," She yawns and does a horrible job at covering it. "I'll sleep when I'm dead?"

(He's uncomfortable with that notion.)

Instead he swats at her feet that are propped on the dash. She makes no move to remedy her position.

"Feet,"

"Are you ever going to let me drive?"

"No," He says simply, and in response to her scowl, adds, "I've seen you drive, remember."

"When are you going to get over that," He can hear the drowsiness in her voice. 

"We no longer have a bumper, thanks to your remarkable steering." He says dryly. 

"Well you were no help, lying in the back seat _moaning_ ," 

He points a finger at her, "I was stitching up my arm, and I believe I was yelling at you to take the damn left exit, _not_ moaning -"

"Whatever," She cuts him off, adjusting herself in her seat. "I was the one who got us out of the line of gunfire."

His jaw flexes, and she takes it as a sign of defeat from him. A little bit smug, they let the silence wash over them once again, the only noise the rumble of the engine. It's getting easier, these moments of quiet. Apparently sharing a car with someone for nearly three weeks will do that. She's starting to forget to be angry with him. 

 

"Tell me again,"

Skye's voice is small, and he shoots her a prolonged glance. These soft edges she so rarely exposes makes his heart thrum, and it's getting worse. He can hear Garrett's voice ringing in the back of his thoughts:  _it's a weakness, all that you're feeling is a weakness._  

He doesn't want to tell her about her mother again. 

He sighs, "We'll be in Death Valley in the next couple of hours, and if I remember correctly, you wanted to be there - and awake - for that." 

(I know you get nightmares, Skye.)

She frowns, but he can see her body ease back into the seat. The rigidness in her shoulder leaves, something he guesses she doesn't even notice. He wonders if she was more awake if she'd push, or if she'd have even asked. Instead she turns her head towards the window, and lets the moonlight cast a shadow over her face. 

 

He knows he's distracted when he almost drives into an incoming semi. 

He swerves, biting down on the long list of curses. Skye, god above knows how, sleeps through the whole thing, thank god. Humiliating is one word for it, even more so when he admits it was because he kept throwing looks at his sleeping passenger. Hell if he doesn't know how far gone he is. He berates himself:  _keep emotions in check_ , _especially when driving a fucking car at ninety-five miles per hour._

He's torn from his thoughts, however, when Skye flinches, and he's steeling himself for whatever snide comment he well deserves. But it becomes increasingly clear when it's something much, much worse. She's a deep sleeper, he knows his. So when she starts mumbling, twisting in her seat, and the tears start to come, he pulls over. 

(He's only witnessed this once before.)

"Skye, hey -" He throws the car into park, and reaches out for her with tentative fingers. 

"No, no, no please," Her voices cracks, and she flinches from his touch. Gentle, he reminds himself, and feels something press against his ribcage. 

"Hey," He tries again, "Skye, listen, you're dreaming -" 

("What happened to her?")

"Mom, please, I -" She takes a rattling breath, and she's clutching the seat with white knuckles.

("They killed her,")

His fingers wrap around her hands, eases their hold, and he can feel her start to relax. "Skye, it's okay." He keeps repeating her name, as if it's his life line too.

(It is. She is.)

Her hands reach out, grabs onto him, pulls him closer. He doesn't resist when she clutches at the fabric of his shirt, her nails digging into him. He hesitates before he wraps an arm around her shoulder, hoping to stop her from shaking. She presses herself closer into him, and he can feel her cheek against beneath his collar bone, her hair tickling his face. She overwhelms him, and she scares him too. 

"My, my m-mom - she, they killed -" 

"It's just a dream, alright? Shh, hey, Skye." He presses his mouth to her ear, feels her draw a long breath. The hiccups start to cease. 

She holds him there for a few minutes, and he wonders if she'll remember this in the morning. If she wants her to. When he finally tries to pull away from her, her hands tighten reflexively.

"No, stay," 

 

So he does.

 

-

 

iii.

 

She's never been as nervous as she is now, staring up at the oak door in front of her. 

He's standing to her far left, giving her privacy. Despite everything, his presence is comforting. She takes a breath. 

Behind that door is her father. The man they've been tracking for the past month, impossible to find, and a wake of danger behind him. But they did it, Ward and her did it. Her fingers trace the scars across her knuckles, the reminders of her journey, the biting realizations and her reckless decisions. They're all part of her now. 

Her hands won't stop shaking. 

Even though she's thought about this moment ever since she was little, in that creaking house that was the orphanage, to that stupid note that said  _He's on route 66,_ she thought she was prepared. She knows she's strong, stronger than ever before, but somehow she can't stop the tremor in her fingers. It's stupid, she reminds herself, he's just a man. This is what she wants, what she's told herself she wanted for two decades. 

"Ward," She hears herself saying. 

She feels his fingers thread through hers; firm and steady. 

(It's not weakness, and she's not any less; they're stronger together.)

"Will you stay?" 

 

 

The answer is always yes. 

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> yes, "I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife" is from 'take me to church', by hoizer. 
> 
> stay fresh, homies.


End file.
